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IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



BY BERTON BRALEY 

IN CAMP AND TRENCH 

A BANJO AT ARMAGEDDON 

THINGS AS THEY ARE 

SONGS OF THE WORKADAY WORLD 



NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



In Camp and 
Trench 

Songs of the Fighting Forces 

by 
Berton Braley 

Author of "A Banjo at Armageddon" etc. 



New York 
\jeorge //. Doran (company 






COPYRIGHT, 1918, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



JUN 21 1918 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



0>Ci.A49?84B 









TO 

CHARLES AGNEW MacLEAN 
Editor of the Popular Magazine 

at whose suggestion and with 
whose encouragement most 
of these verses were written 



CONTENTS 



Over the Top 
Names 



Page 
. 16 



MEN OF THE GUARD 

"B" Division ........ 19 

Chow ......... 21 

Hiking . 23 

Drill 25 

"PLATTSBURGERS" 

The Colt . 29 

The Grind 31 

Turnabout . 33 

Education . . . . . . .35 

The Breaking Point ...... 37 

BOYS OF THE DRAFT 



The Recruit 

The Old Top Sergeant 

"K.P." 

Jacks of All Trades 

The Comb Band 

The Slicker . 

Ambition . 



41 

43 
46 
48 
5i 
53 
55 



IN THE THICK OF IT 



The Doughboy 
War Songs 
Artillery . 



>ii] 



59 
61 

62 



CONTENTS 

Page 
The Rooter ' .64 

Thanksgiving Somewhere in France „ . .67 

The Christmas Sermon ...... 70 

The Search ...... . . 73 

ON THE U-BOAT TRAIL 

Heroes ......... 77 

The Destroyer Men ....... 79 

Not in Uniform ....... 81 

The Mine Sv/eepers ...... 82 

Deserted Roads ... .... 84 



[viii] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



OVER THE TOP 

YN the little pause when the drum fire stops before 

■*• the whistles blow, 

When a fellow's heart to his boot heels drops and the 

seconds tick off slow, 
When he says "Good-bye, and if I 'go west' just tell 

the folks for me— — " 
And then chokes up in his throat and chest or cusses a 

bit, maybe, 
It gives him courage and strength and pluck, when the 

others wish him well 
With "Over the top with the best of luck and give the 

Bosches hell!" 

When our boys shall get in a first line trench of the big 

show over there 
And breathe the smoke and the battle stench as the 

shrapnel bursts in air, 
It'll help each man as he waits and waits to charge 

through No Man's Land, 
If he's sure that back in the Good Old States we know 

and we understand. 
His heart will thrill with a truer pluck if he knows we 

wish him well, 
With "Over the top with the best of luck and give the 

Bosches hell!" 



[15] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



CALL him Sammy or call him Jack, 
Call him Johnny or Ted or Mac, 
Give him any old kind of name, 
It doesn't matter, he'll fight the same. 

The name you give him won't help or harm 
His brave young heart or his fighting arm ; 
Whatever the label that's his to wear, 
When he hits Berlin he will write it there. 

So call him whatever your fancy's struck, 
If you only love him and wish him luck 
It matters not what the term may be, 
Its proper spelling is Victory! 

So call him Jerry or call him Jim, 

It's all quite one and the same to him, 

For the dream that's stirring his hot young blood 

Is changing the Kaiser's name to "Mud" ! 



[16] 



MEN OF THE GUARD 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



"B" DIVISION 

HEN we heard our country calling us we volun- 
teered for service; 
It was just our simple duty, or it looked that way 
to us, 
Though the thought of facing shell fire made us feel a 
trifle nervous, 
And we weren't exactly anxious to be mixing in the 
fuss. 
Now in companies, battalions and in regiments we're 
drilling, 
We are lettered and we're numbered for our job 
across the foam, 
But the men of "B" division weren't so ready or so 
willing, 
While we hold the muddy trenches they'll be quar- 
tered safe at home! 



Oh! the men of "B" division made a safe and sane 
decision, 
They are meek and peaceful parties and they hate 
to pack a gun ; 
They'll avoid the great collision and we call 'em 
"B" division 
'Cause they'll "B" here while we're fighting 
And they'll "B" here when we're done! 
[i93 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



"B" DIVISION (continued) 

They're the calm, intrepid members of the tribe of "We 
should worry !" 
/'Let George do it !" is their motto, and they follow it, 
all right; 
They're the ones who ducked conscription— though it 
put them in a flurry— 
And they'll try to cop our sweethearts while we go 
to France and fight. 
But I'd rather be a soldier who is daring blood and 
slaughter 
Than to have a heart of putty and to stick at home 
and know 
That while other men were playing in the game across 
the water 
I belonged to "B M division, with the guys who 
wouldn't go! 

They have made their own decision and they're 
stuck in "B" division, 
While we do our bit of service for the old red, 
white and blue, 
But we view 'em with derision and we call 'em "B" 
division 
'Cause they'll "B" here while we're fighting 
And they'll "B" here when we're through ! 



[20] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



CHOW 

YOU may mutter and swear at the Reveille call 
With its "Can't get 'em up in the morning," 
And you may not be fond of assembly at all, 

But you drop into line at the warning; 
Police call will cause you a lot of distress, 

Though you answer at once or regret it, 
But you jump when the splinter-lips bugle for mess 

And the hash-slinger yells, "Come and get it!" 



For you know that it means 
"Form in line for your beans 
With your mess-kit in hand— do it now!" 

And you cheerfully come 
For your coffee and slum 
When the splinter-lips bugle for chow ! 



When you trudge in at night from a twenty-mile hike 

With your throat and your uniform dusty, 
You learn what a genuine appetite's like— 

The kind that the writers call "lusty," 
And a feed at the swellest of city hotels, 

With a half-dozen waiters to set it, 
Wouldn't touch what the hash-slinger serves as he 
yells : 

"Hi, doughboys, it's up ! Come and get it !" 

[21] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



CHOW (continued) 

For It's filling and hot 

And it hits the right spot 
And it smoothes out the lines in your brow, 

So we line up with speed 

When the time comes for feed 
And the splinter-lips bugle for chow. 

It is bully to find there's a letter for you 

Or a box of tobacco and candy, 
And permission for leave is too good to be true, 

And a book or a paper comes handy ; 
But the moment in camp that is dearest to me 

(And with pleasure I always have met it) 
Is the time when the hash-slinger bellows out free; 

"Hi, doughboys, it's up! Come and get it!" 

Oh! we kick and we howl 

And we mumble and growl 
At the stuff that we eat, but somehow 

We gather in style 

With a standing broad smile 
When the splinter-lips bugle for chow. 



[22] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



HIKING 

(Heavy Marching Order) 

NE-TWO-THREE-FOUR." Some-hike! Some- 
hike! 

Hot-sun. Thick-dust. Hard- work? Sure-Mike. 
Forty -five-pound-pack-now- weighs-one-ton. 
"One-two-three-four"-I-swear-this-gun 
Isn't-any-small-arm. Take-it-from-me, 
It-was-made-for-field-ar-tiller-ree! 
It-should-have-wheels, six-wheels-or-more — 
Gosh-my-throat's-dry. "One-two-three-four !" 

Route step is easier, breaks the monotony, 
Brings back your spirits a bit, if you've got any; 
Don't have to count every step that you take, 
Don't have to watch every move that you make. 
Some other squad starts to kidding and joking you, 
Then you kid back, though the dust cloud is choking 

you; 
Maybe a bunch starts a popular song 
That helps a heap when you're hiking along. 

And then when you stop for a rest 
Where the grass looks so soft and so green 

And you loosen the pack from your weary old back 
And you swig from your army canteen, 
[23] 



IN CAMP, AND TRENCH 



HIKING (continued) 

You heave a deep sigh from your chest 

And you say to yourself as you sprawl: 
"Well, I thought I was gone—that I couldn't keep on ; 

But I guess I'll get through, after all !" 

Then it's "Fall in—march!" and we're off again, 

A bunch of dusty and tired men, 

Whose shoulders sag from their bandoliers 

As they tramp along for a hundred years; 

Or it seems a hundred until you get 

So you march like soldiers, and we don't — yet. 

Our feet are sore and we'd like to quit, 

But each guy summons his nerve and grit 

And sticks, somehow, till we hit our camp 

With the corporals counting the steps we tramp. 

"One-two-three-four." Darn-all-this-work. 
I-wish-X-knew-how-I-could-shirk 
Long-hikes-like-this. Fm-all-in-now ; 
When-I-get-back— oh-you-mess-chow! 

Seems-like-I-can't-take-one-step-more; 
"One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four." 



[24] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



DRILL 

GOSH, but I'm tired of drill! 
Clumping all over the lot, 
("Right shoulder — humph ! Left shoulder— humph !") 

Dusty and sweaty and hot. 
Tramping the clods in platoons and in squads, 

Dressing by inches and charging by rods; 
Harking to shavetails who bark their commands ; 

Turning and wheeling, or standing dead still, 
Keeping just so with my feet and my hands — 

Gosh, but I'm tired of drill ! 



I've got an ache in my back, 

I've got a pain in my neck ; 
("Right shoulder— humph ! Left shoulder— humph !") 

Gee, but I feel like a wreck ! 
Ache in each arch of my feet as we march, 

(Feel like a dress shirt without any starch). 
Doing the manual hours at a time, 

Learning to work with "mechanical skill," 
Sergeant says: "Rotten! You guys are a crime! 

Do it all over." 

(We do it all over.) 
Gosh, but I'm tired of drill ! 



Day after day after day. 
Plenty, I say, is enough. 

[253 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



DRILL (continued) 

("Right shoulder — humph! Left shoulder — humph!") 

..Who the hell started this stuff? 
I wouldn't kick about doing my trick 

Down in the trenches — tout this is too thick. 
Ain't there no end to this horrible bore? 

Skipper says : "Boys, if you'll work with a will, 
We'll make you soldiers in seven years more." 
("Right shoulder— humph ! Left shoulder— humph !") 

Gosh, but I'm tired of drill ! 



[26] 



PLATTSBURGERS 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE COLT 

COLT" is the name that surely fits 
This weapon's every action, 
For like a colt she runs to skits 

Which drive you to distraction. 
She seems a gentle, simple gun, 

But when you come to aim her 
She jumps and kicks and bucks like fun 

And, gosh 8 it's hard to tame her. 



The blue-steel Colt, 
The new steel Colt, 

She runs to stunts erratic, 
For she's a durn 
Tough arm to learn, 

This Army Automatic. 



You think you'll blow the mark to pot 

At ten or fifteen paces 
And find that not a single shot 

Has left the slightest traces. 
All seven bullets went astray 

Amid the zephyrs breezy, 
Thus showing in a vivid way 

The Colt is not so easy. 
[29] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE COLT (continued) 

The nifty Colt, 
The shifty Colt, 
She speaks in tones emphatic, 

But often works 
By whims and quirks, 
This Army Automatic! 

Yet when you get to know this arm 

And how to coax and pet her, 
She'll do her duty like a charm, 

No gun will serve you better; 
She'll stick right closely by your side, 

And as the fight grows hotter 
And you are caught in battle's tide 

You'll thank your stars you've got her. 

The lusty Colt, 

The trusty Colt, 
The weapon democratic, 

Whose vicious might 

Makes men one height, 
The Army Automatic ! 



[30] 



IN CAMP AMD TRENCH 



THE GRIND 

OH ! you grumble and yawn as you wake up at dawn 
Or maybe an hour or two prior, 
And you jump out ker-plunk from your nice cosy bunk 

To a floor that is far from the fire ; 
Then there's mess and "Police" and your labours 
increase 
When the bugle is sounded for drilling, 
Which is needful, all right, if you'd learn how to fight, 
Though it isn't especially thrilling. 

But you simply must go through it, 
There's the job— you've got to do it, 

Though there seems an awful gob of it to cram ; 
If you want to be an officer, 
A good efficient officer, 
A credit to your Uncle Sam! 

Then there's bayonet drill, where you learn how to kill 

In a manner uncouth but conclusive ; 
After which you must scoot to the range, where you 
shoot 

At a target that's highly elusive. 
Then to classes you hie where you buck S. P. I. 

And the I. D. R. adds to your worry ; 
Even noon call for mess scarcely lightens the stress, 

For you've got to get through in a hurry. 
[31] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE GRIND (continued) 

But the Training Schools demand it 
And you'll simply have to stand it 
And go trotting to the slaughter like a lamb 
If you want to be an officer, 
A first-class A 1 officer, 

A credit to your Uncle Sam! 

In the trenches you grub and the suicide club 

Needs a lot of your strictest attention, 
And there's duty to do with the wig-wagging crew 

And the hikes, which are painful to mention; 
And at night there is school, which you find, as a rule, 

Is productive of labour and sorrow ; 
Then you loaf till it's taps— that's a half hour, per- 
haps— 

And there's nothing to do till to-morrow. 

But although you growl and grumble, 
You will do your duty humble 
With the patience of an oyster or a clam 
If you want to be an officer, 
A real, up-standing officer, 
A credit to your Uncle Sam! 

Glossary: "Police"— cleaning up barracks and streets, etc. 
S. P. I.— "Small Problems in Infantry." I. D. R.— "Infantry 
Drill Regulations." Suicide Club— Machine Gun Men. Wig- 
wagging Crew— Signalmen. 



[32] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



TURNABOUT 

O-DAY I am only a private 

That every one orders about; 

When a Sergeant says "Hup !" 

I have got to play up, 
And I jump at the corporal's shout. 
But presently I shall arrive at 
My turn to be Sergeant ; oh, boy ! 

And the Sergeant to-day 

Will be private, and, say, 
I guess that won't rill me with joy! 

I'll make him stand round at attention, 
The way that he does it to me, 

And I'll give him a call 

If he blunders at all 
Or he errs in the slightest degree. 
I'll use all my native invention 
To work him with vigour and vim, 

And whatever he did 

To keep me on a grid 
I shall certainly do it to him! 

For it's all in the game we are learning 
And it isn't in rancour, we know; 
Though this turnabout stuff 
May appear a bit rough, 
[33] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



TURNABOUT (continued) 

It's the way to make officers grow. 

It means that the stripes we are earning 
, Will represent labour and sweat— 

And the Sergeant just now 
Will have beads on his brow 
When I am a Sergeant, you bet! 



£34] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



EDUCATION 



TJjELIEVE me, hereafter, whenever I meet 
■■-' A chap who is digging a ditch in the street 

I'll bring up my hand and salute! 
For I have been learning, in sap and boyau, 
How hard you must work and how much you must 
know 

To be a good shovel-recruit. 
My hands are all blisters, my muscles are lame 
From digging the sand and revetting the same 

In a proper and soldierly style, 
And all the night long as I lie in my bunk 
I dream about dirt by the ton or the chunk 

And sand by the linear mile. 



I used to think trenches were simple and plain, 
Requiring no actual use of the brain, 

But I was mistaken, that's clear; 
From what I've observed, if you build them correct, 
You need to be carpenter, drain architect 

And plumber and mine engineer. 
So we're getting plenty of drill from the start 
Till we learn every phase of the business by heart, 

And we know all the hooks and the crooks, 
For when we're commanding our men at the front 
We've got to know all of this trench-digging stunt 

Without any help from the books. 
[35] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



EDUCATION (continued) 
I talk about parados, wattling, facine 
And think that in time I will know what they mean; 
, Though at present I'm hazy, I guess. 
Perhaps when I've dug out a dug-out or two 
I'll learn why I'm doing the things that I do 

And accumulate sense, more or less. 
And meantime I'm drilling with shovel and pick 
In sand that is heavy and mud that is thick, 

Constructing traverse and redoubt 
And doing my Sunday-school darndest to cope 
With all the instructions. I'll learn them, I hope, 

If the arnica doesn't run out ! 



Glossary: Revetting — strengthening trench sides with brush- 
work, etc. Parados — opposite to parapet; back of a trench. 
Wattling-— basketwork to hold dirt. Facine—a bundle of 
sticks. Traverse—zigzag trenches. Redoubt—a heavily forti- 
fied bit of trench. 



[36] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE BREAKING POINT 

THERE'S a feud between Kelly and Klaw, 
They sputter like steaks on a grid, 
For Klaw calls big Kelly a Chaw 
And Kelly says Klaw is a Yid ; 
There's a row between Linton and Jones 

And there's trouble with Hyland and Wright, 
And our barrack resounds with the tones 
Of quarrel, dissension and fight, 

We used to be joyous and blithe 

And pleasant and placid to boot, 
But lately two-thirds of us writhe 

In a nervous excitement acute; 
We're fidgety, crochety, sore, 

We wake at the dawn with a scowl, 
And things that we grinned at before 

Now cause us to curse and to growl. 



The reason? It's simple enough: 

We've worked and we've studied and grilled, 
We've gone through a mill that is rough, 

We've dug and we've hiked and we've drilled, 
And now that we're pretty near through 

And most of the labour is past, 
We're fretting and wondering who 

Will land the commissions at last. 
[37] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE BREAKING POINT (continued) 
There's rumour and whisper at mess 

And guesses in trench and latrine, 
We spread wild reports as we dress, 

We gossip at school and canteen, 
We hear they'll examine on this 

Or lay all their stress upon that. 
What marvel our nerves go amiss 

And every one talks through his hat? 

But wait till it's over; then Klaw 

And Kelly will patch up their row, 
And Linton and Jones will haw S haw ! 

At the way that they carry on now ; 
The winners and those they defeat 

Will act like good men who fought well, 
For the finish is not hard to meet — 

It's only the worry that's hell. 



[38] 



BOYS OF THE DRAFT 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE RECRUIT 

1USED to wake up with a sticky tongue 
And an eye that was dull and red, 
And the 6ongs that the early birdies sung 

I heard on my way to bed ; 
But now I jump with the reveille 

And my eyes are bright and clear 
And I thank my lucky stars each day 
That the government brought me here. 

I used to be mean as a hermit crab 

Till I'd swallowed my morning drink, 
But now that I'm wearing the Olive Drab 

I'm blithe as a bobolink, 
For the fresh air thrills through my throat and chest 

And I just want to shout and roar, 
And life has a savour, a zip, a zest 

That I never have known before. 

I used to be flabby and soft and white 

When I sat at a desk in town, 
But since I've been learning the way to fight 

I'm husky and hard and brown. 
It took a cocktail to make me eat 

The choicest of food, but now 
You watch me march to a mess-shack seat 

And wade through the army chow. 
[41] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE RECRUIT (continued) 
So I smile a sort of a shame-faced smile 

When I think how I plead exempt, 
And I'm glad that the board saw through my guile 

With a glance of cool contempt ; 
And though I may perish across the seas, 

I'll be one of a splendid clan, 
For the army's taken a piece of cheese 

And made it into a Man! 



[42] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE OLD TOP SERGEANT 

TWENTY years of the army, of drawing a ser- 
geant's pay 
And helping the West Point shavetails, fresh from 
the training school, 
To handle a bunch of soldiers and drill 'em the proper 
way 
(Which isn't always exactly according to book and 
rule). 
I've seen 'em rise to Captains and Majors and Colonels, 
too, 
And me still only a sergeant, the same as I used to 
be, 
And I knew that some of them didn't know as much 
as a sergeant knew, 
But I stuck to my daily duty— -there wasn't a growl 
from me. 



Twenty years of the army, 
Serving in peace and war, 

Standing the drill of the army mill, 
For that's what they paid me for. 



Twenty years with the army, which wasn't so much 
for size, 
But man for man I'd back it to lick any troops on 
earth. 

[43] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE OLD TOP SERGEANT (continued) 
'Twas a proud, little, classy army, as good as the flag 
it flies, 
And it takes an old top sergeant to know what the 
flag is worth. 
Then— a shot at Sarejevo, and hell burst over there 
And the Kaiser dragged us in it, and the bill for the 
draft was passed 
And— they handed me my commission, and some 
shoulder straps to wear, 
And the crazy dream of my rooky days had 
changed to a fact at last. 

Twenty years with the army, 
And it's great to know they call 

On the guys like me for what will be 
The mightiest job of all. 

Twenty years of the army, of doing what shavetails 

bid, 
And I know I haven't the polish that fellows like 
that will show, 
And I hold a high opinion of the brains of a West 
Point kid, 
But I think I can make him hustle when it comes 
to the work I know. 
But who cares where we come from, Plattsburg, ranks, 
or the Guard, 
This isn't a pink tea-party, but a War to be fought 
and won; 
There's a serious job before us, a job that is huge and 
hard, 
And the social register don't count until we've got 
it done! 

[44] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE OLD TOP SERGEANT (continued) 
Twenty years in the army, 

And now I've got my chance. 
Have I earned my straps? Well, you watch 
the chaps 
That I've trained for the game in France ! 



[45l 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



P. M 



H ! Kitchen Police is the duty that creases 

A lot of new lines in your brow ; 
It keeps a guy hustling when detailed for rustling 

The daily allowance of chow. 
The Murphies I'm peeling have set my mind reeling, 

I've done seven billion and three, 
When I get away from this job I'll be grey from 
K. P. 



But there's no escaping from scrubbing and scraping 

The pans and the pots and the plates, 
And bringing in fuel and ladling out gruel 

And paring the onions by crates; 
My nerves are all shaken from smelling the bacon, 

The coffee, the beans, and the tea, 
My hunger's departed; who was it that started 
K. P.? 



I thought I'd be fighting the Germans, and righting 

The wrongs that the papers portrayed, 
And here I am wearing an apron and bearing 

The task of a scullery maid ; 
Why, drilling is easy compared to the greasy 

Hard labour they've handed to me, 
This cleaning of fishes and juggling of dishes, 
K. P.! 

[46] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



"K. P." (continued) 

Say, when by a drive at the Bosche we arrive at 

The widely known town of Berlin, 
And cheerfully- — rather—- we reach out and gather 

The Kaiser and Hindenburg in, 
I've got a suggestion to settle the question 

Of what we shall do with 'em: Gee! 
I'd thrill to be viewing the pair of them doing 
K. P.! 



[47] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



JACKS OF ALL TRADES 

UNCLE SAM reached out and took us, so of course 
we went and came 
To his school of preparation for the military game ; 
We laid down the tools of labour for our rifles and our 

packs, 
Wrapped our clothing into bundles and put khaki on 

our backs. 
Yes, we left the farm and office and the counter and 

the mill, 
And the time clock all behind us, but we hadn't left 

our skill; 
And while fighting in the trenches is the work we have 

in view, 
Any other job you mention is the kind that we can do. 

For the farmers and the plumbers 

And the agents and the drummers 
And the miners from the tunnel and the shaft, 

And the puddlers and the tailors 

And the lumbermen and sailors 
Have their quota in the Army of the Draft. 

We are learning to be soldiers who can hand the gaff 

to Fritz, 
With a stew pan for a kelly and our rifles in our mitts, 
But if there's a strike of workers on the recreation hall 

[48] 



IN CAMP AND TRENC 



JACKS OF ALL TRADES (continued) 

We've a bunch of boys among us who can build it, 

stage and all. 
They can paint the scenes and shift 'em, they can write 

and act a play 
With a list of star performers that would daze the 

Great White Way, 
For the pick of each profession and the class of every 

trade 
Are assembled here together in the army we have 

made. 



Yes, the digger of the sewer 
And the butcher and the brewer 

And the politician, leaving all his graft, 
And the writer and the actor 
And the garment sub-contractor 

Have their quota in the Army of the Draft! 



We have many expert cracksmen who are pretty sure 
to shine 

In the job of prying spaces through the mighty Ger- 
man line; 

We have engineers and sandhogs who will presently 
begin 

On the digging of a subway that will take us to 
Berlin. 

We're an army of civilians who are being trained for 
war, 

But the work of smashing Germans isn't all we're 
fitted for; 

[49] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



JACKS OF ALL TRADES (continued) 

We're a varied bunch of toilers from a big and busy 

land 
That our Uncle Sam has summoned for a job he has 

on hand. 

For he gets the high and lowly 

And the wicked and the holy 
And the men of every trade and every craft, 

And well work and win together 

As we battle heil-for-leather 
In the democratic Army of the Draft ! 



[So] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE COMB BAND 

|H ! we love the gay Victrola in the watches of the 
night 

And we sit about and listen to its records with delight, 
And we like to hear the music of the regimental band 
While the leader juggles gaily with the baton in his 

hand, 
But the melody that's sweetest as we linger in the 

gloam 
Is the harmony extracted from a fine tooth comb. 



Yes, we get some tissue paper and some combs from 

out our kit 
And we gather in the squad-tent where the lantern 

shadows flit, 
And we play a bunch of ragtime with a lot of vim and 

In a sort of jazz-band rhythm — all the latest stuff we 

know; 
Tunes that set your shoulders swaying, while your 

thoughts are light as foam, 
To the sound of syncopation on a fine tooth comb. 

It's a crazy sort of music which would drive a critic 

mad, 
But it makes the evenings shorter and it really ain't 

so bad; 

[Si] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE COMB BAND (continued) 

And it often kind of gets you when the boys start in 
to play, 

For I've seen some homesick fellows wipe a tear or 
two away 

To the strains of "Suwanee River" and "My Old Ken- 
tucky Home" 

As they float in wistful minors from a fine tooth comb. 

When this cruel war is over— and I hope I'll last it 

through — 
And we beat the German army— as we all intend to do ; 
When the slaughtering is finished and the final fight 

we win 
And with flags and pennons flying we go marching 

through Berlin, 
I would like to tramp in triumph past the Kaiser's 

palace dome 
Playing "Stars and Stripes Forever!" on a fine tooth 

comb i 



tsal 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE SLICKER 

OH I the slicker makes a dicker for a u-ne-f orm 
That's the very latest style and cut; 

He is military, very, where the ladies swarm 
And you ought to see the beggar strut. 

Just to suit him we salute him as he breezes by 
In the khaki of a fighting man, 

But he never will endeavour to go forth to die, 
And he'll stay as far from trouble as he can. 



Every fellow isn't yellow in the ordnance corps ; 

There are plenty who are first-rate men. 
It's the codger who's a dodger that we all abhor, 

That has ducked the draft to wield a pen ; 
One who blenches at the trenches, though his frame is 
dressed 

In the garments that the soldiers wear; 
It's the cutie seeking duty in a nice warm nest 

Very far away from "Over There." 



He's a showboy, not a doughboy, in his nice clean 

clothes, 
And he'll never get 'em muddied up in scraps, 
For the rattle of a battle is a thought he loathes 
As he polishes his shoulder straps. 
[53] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE SLICKER (continued) 

So we greet him when we meet him with a smart 
salute 

-As he swaggers past, all neat and trim, 
But I'm thinking he'd be shrinking in his khaki suit 

If he knew the view we take of him ! 



[54] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



(Aviation Corps) 

J HAVE studied hard in the engine class 
And with math I have racked my brain, 
With a penguin old I have cut the grass 

And I've ridden a practice plane; 
I've taken a routine flight or two 

And they say that I'm not so bad, 
But the glorious goal that I have in view 
Is to pilot a combat Spad ! 

Oh! to surge and soar as the engines roar 

And to dart like a hawk awheel, 
And to climb and swoop as I loop the loop 

Or flash in a giddy vrille, 
With my eyes alight and my pulses glad— 

Oh, Gee, but I long for a combat Spad ! 

I must plug along in a slow old hack 

Till I'm fit for the test, I know, 
Till I've learned the way to the clouds and back 

And drilled for the war's big show; 
But I watch the chap from the Esquadrille 

And my heart it thumps like mad 
As I think of the joy a man must feel 

To fly in a combat Spad ! 
[55] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



AMBITION (continued) 

Oh ! the way she leaps to the stars and sweeps 

Through the chill of the upper air, 
I would give my soul to win control 

Of a plane like that up there, 
To shoot through space like the daring lad 
Who's doing stunts with a combat Spad. 

Well, the time will come when my barograph 

Will register dizzy height, 
When I'll down my Hun from the clouds and laugh 

As I drive with the speed of light, 
With my Lewis drumming a song of death 

While the Gothas plunge aflame, 
As I taste adventure with every breath 

And play in the war's great game! 

So I wait my chance when the air of France 

Shall welcome me as I rise 
To dare my fate with the Huns of Hate 

Who battle amid the skies. 
I shall try my luck with a heart that's glad 
And win or lose in a combat Spad! 



[56] 



IN THE THICK OF IT 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE DOUGHBOY 

E kicks about his sergeant 

And he kicks about his chow, 
He grumbles at the drilling 

And he makes an awful row 
When the bugle blows assembly 

And he's ordered on a hike. 
For the howls he makes are legion 
At the things he doesn't like. 

He kicks about the shavetail 

And his foolish little strut; 
He says the Captain's crazy 

And the Colonel is a mutt. 
He grumbles at the General 

(He doesn't know what for) 
And he says the war department 

Is mismanaging the war. 



He kicks about his uniform, 

His mess-kit and his pack; 
He moans about the danger 

Of his never coming back. 
Yes, when he's safe in barracks 

He's a kicker all the while ; 
He says the army's crummy 

And a soldier's life is vile. 
[59] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE DOUGHBOY (continued) 

But when he gets in action 

With the other fighting men 
You'll find this kicker changing 

Into something else again. 
He will kick himself through hell fire 

V/herc the battle tumult rings, 
Till he's kicked the German Kaiser 

On the garbage heap of Kings. 



|6o] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



WAR SONGS 

OH ! the songs that thrill the trenches are the songs 
that start the feet 
Into keeping time and measure with their syncopated 

beat, 
Not the grand and stately music that the sober-minded 

praise, 
But the foolish little ditties of the shows and cabarets. 

In the crackle of the rifles and the rumble of the guns 
There's an underlying rhythm which interminably runs 
To a mighty sort of ragtime, as the bullets whine and 

spat 
And machine guns split the ear drums with a vicious 

rat-a-tat. 

So the syncopated music of the Tin Pan Alley brand 

Is the stuff that cheers our fighters in a far and for- 
eign land; 

It's the gay and careless cadence that seems always to 
be made 

As a battle hymn in ragtime for the wholly unafraid! 



[61] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



ARTILLERY 

GUNS! Guns! Guns! 
In the battle of to-day they're the ones ; 
They're the bruisers in the fray, 
They're the boys that clear the way? 
Thro win' projectiles by tons- 
Heavy guns! 



Yes, somewhere way back of the lines, 

In a nice leafy bower or dell, 
Is where the artillery shines 

In givin' the enemy hell; 
The guns waddle up through the mire 

Like a fat lady walks on her pins, 
But when the command comes to fire, 

Well, that's when the straffin' begins. 



The muzzles heaves up to the sky, 

The lanyards is pulled, there's a roar ; 
The shells whistles, curvin' up high, 

And then there is more— an' still more. 
The gunners they sweats an' they smiles 

As carriages shiver an' wrench, 
An' way off— -some several miles- — 

Them shells has abolished a trench. 

[62] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



ARTILLERY (continued) 

Your infantry may be O. K., 

But when you prepare for a charge 
If big guns ain't clearin' the way 

You're gonta be smashed, by an' large. 
It's guns that rips bomb proofs to bits 

An' barb wire entanglements, too; 
It's guns gives the enemy fits 

So infantrymen kin break through! 

Yes, youVe gotta have the guns, 
Heavy guns, 

Throwin' shells by tons an' tons, 

Shells that smashes an' that stuns; 
They're the bruisers of the fray, 
They're the boys that clears the way, 

In the warfare of to-day they're the ones- 
Bully guns! 



[63] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE ROOTER 

JIM FISHER was a shiftless duck 
Who had but little to his credit, 
He blamed his poor estate on luck 
But people snickered when he said it. 



They knew he dodged the thought of work 
And looked for it but feared to find it ; 

They said his middle name was Shirk, 
And Jim, he loafed, and didn't mind it. 



It would be hard to name a task 
That Jim was ever sawing wood at, 

But, just in case some one should ask, 
There was one stunt that he was good at. 



He was a rooter superfine, 

A fan beyond all sense or reason ; 
He ballyhooed behind the nine 
At every contest through the season. 



He yelled and hooted long and loud, 

He cheered and sang through thin and thick ; it 
Was so amusing to the crowd 

That he got in without a ticket. 
[64] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE ROOTER (continued) 

An umpire's goat he loved to bait. 

He liked to thrill the rooters' caucus 
With howls that seemed to ululate 

And cries of "Robber" hoarse and raucous. 

And many times when there was doubt 
About the home town's chance of winning, 

Jim's bellow helped to pull them out 
To triumph in the final inning. 

So when upon the army draft 

It pleased just Destiny to list him, 
Though many people grinned and laughed, 

You bet the baseball rooters missed him ! 

But though he was a lazy gink 

Who, up to then, through life had stumbled, 
He took his dose without a blink — 

He was a sport, and never grumbled. 

At last they sent him on his way 

To face grim battle in the trenches; 
He marched with temper light and gay 
And winked at all the Gallic wenches. 

One day the Bosche artillery 

Began an extra heavy shelling; 
All Hades suddenly broke free 

Within the trench where Jim was dwelling. 
[653 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE ROOTER (continued) 

It seemed that awful bath of fire 
Would never, never discontinue; 
•■ It killed and buried men in mire 

And racked the others, brain and sinew. 

And then there came a charge of Huns, 
They looked tremendous and titanic; 

Jim's comrades, dropping all their guns, 
Started to run in sudden panic. 

Then, high above the battle roar 
Sounded a most appalling hooting; 

It was Jim Fisher, as of yore, 

Bellowing, shouting, screaming, rooting! 

"Come awn!'* he yelled. "Come awn, play ball! 

Them guys ain't got a thing to show us. 
Come awn— one smash, one smash, that's all, 

One smash an' they won't want to know us. 

"Come awn, wake up, get in the game, 

We'll send these Potsdam bushers spinning! 

Come awn, boys, come—" They heard— and came, 
And won out in the final inning! 



[66] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THANKSGIVING 

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 

'M sittin' here in a muddy trench 
Somewhere on the Flanders line, 
While the rain comes down in a steady drench 

An' the shells from the Bosches whine; 
An' the folks are havin' a feast at home 

While I'm in the muck of war, 
An' I sit an' rattle my tired dome 

To think what I'm thankful for. 



Then all of a sudden it comes to me 

An' I lift up my head an' smile, 
An' my heart it jumps in a bust of glee 

An' I laughs to myself awhile ; 
For though I'm here in a smelly spot 

In the middle of death an' war, 
Good Lord-amighty, I know I've got 

A heap to be thankful for ! 



An' here is the cause I've got for thanks: 

I'm livin' as fits a Man, 
I'm doin' my bit in freedom's ranks 

An' fightin' the best I can. 
[67] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THANKSGIVING (continued) 

Before I joined in this mighty show 

I plugged at a routine job, 
* An' life was easy an' safe— an' slow, 
With never a thrill or throb. 

But now, though I'm in the midst of death 
An' half of the time is hell, 

I taste adventure with every breath 
In the roar of the shot an' shell. 

An' the rats may scamper an' cooties bite, 
A habit that I abhor, 

But I'm in the thick of a Man's-sized fight 
An' it's one I'm thankful for! 

Say, when I think of the way I'd feel 
If I was a slacker guy, 

Afraid to cut an' afraid to deal 

In a game where the stakes is high, 

I says to myself : "Say, you, buck up, 
You got no cause to kick; 

Give thanks that you ain't no slacker pup 
With a heart that's weak an' sick!" 

I ain't a hero— you get me, Jack? 
But nevertheless I ain't 

No quakin' boob with a jelly back 
An' a stomach that's always faint.' 

No doubt them fellers is glad to miss 
The sound of the bugle call, 

But if I die in a war like this, 
They never have lived at all ! 
[68] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THANKSGIVING (continued) 

So I'm glad an' thankful that I have been 

A part of this roarin' game ; 
That I have suffered an' fought with Men 

An' took each chance that came. 
You may die soon, but you live a lot 

In this ugly old sport of war, 
So takin' it all in all I've got 

A heap to be thankful for ! 



[69 1 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE CHRISTMAS SERMON 

E was sittin' tight in a dug-out 
An' playin' a game of rum, 
For ours was a quiet sector then 

An' Fritz's guns was dumb, 
When a footstep crunched in the ice outside 
An' in the Chaplain come. 

Now our Chaplain hailed from Princeton, 

He was husky an' full of vim; 
He'd been a guard in his college days 

An' he'd always kept in trim, 
An' there wasn't a soldier in the trench 

That had more nerve than him. 

Well, he come in that dirty dug-out 

In a kind of a smilin' way, 
An' he says to us : "Boys, I'm thinkin' 

Of havin' some words to say— 
A kind of a sort of a sermon 

That's fitted to Christmas day." 

"Sure, shoot it," says Spike McGuggan. 

"In all of this muck an' grime 
I'd like to hear some woids of cheer 

To make me forget this slime, 
Fer you gotta admit that a day like this 

Is a heluva Christmas time!" 
[70 3 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE CHRISTMAS SERMON (continued) 

So we throws down the cards we're playin' 

An' eight of us boys, or ten, 
Is gathered around the parson 

While he clears his throat, an* then 
He starts off a bully sermon 

On "Peace an' Good Will to Men." 

But he just gets nicely goin' 

An' you bet we didn't scoff 
When the sentries yells: "Hi, fellers, 

Our old friend Fritz is off; 
He's throwin' a bunch of hand grenades 

An' startin' a Christmas strafe!" 

We grabs our masks an' rifles 
(An' the Chaplain grabs one, too) 

An' we all piles out in the ice cold trench 
In a fearful hullyballoo, 

For the Huns has started over the top 
An' there's work for us to do. 

The parson sights his rifle 

An' every time she pops 
Out there in the middle of No Man's Land 

Some field grey figger drops, 
An' the parson grins a happy grin 

Whenever a German flops. 

Says I : "If peace was the thing you preached, 

Then what are you fightin' for?" 
The parson answers: "We'll give 'em peace 
[71] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE CHRISTMAS SERMON (continued) 
By makin' 'em sick of war, 
For the fellow who will not fight for peace 

Is a person that I abhor." 

'Twas a lively show, but we smashed the Huns 

An' we drove them back again. 
An' the Chaplain takes one final shot 

An' puts down his gun, an' then 
He finishes up his Christmas talk 

On "Peace an' Good Will to Men »" 



[72] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE SEARCH 

HE'D come to the city and bucked the big game 
And, playing the best that he could, 
He won some small portion of money and fame ; 

In brief, he had surely "made good," 
He knew everybody worth knowing at all, 

His life was both varied and gay, 
But there was an ennui that held him in thrall 
And nothing could brush it away. 

The brightest of parties, the keenest of wits, 

The plaudits that come from the crowd, 
All life's panorama that changes and flits 

Failed wholly at lifting his cloud ; 
He wasn't a roue, all wearied and spent, 

He worked with a vim and a will, 
Yet somehow he lived in a vague discontent, 

Existence was lacking a thrill. 

There was something he wanted, he didn't know what, 

Not riches, or power or love ; 
He sought it in roving from spot unto spot, 

But still found no lightening of 
The weight of depression that laid on his heart 

A dull and a numb sort of pain, 
Which made him a mortal aloof and apart 

With a trouble he couldn't explain. 
[73l 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE SEARCH (continued) 

Then one day he vanished completely, poor chap, 

And no one could say where he'd gone, 
Though all of us wondered what part of the map 

He might have alighted upon. 
We chatted about him, this man who in truth 

Was never excited or stirred, 
Who, somehow or other, had never known youth 

Or thrilled at a deed or a word. 

And then came his letter, a message elate 

With happiness, vigor and verve. 
He wrote to us: "Fellows, there's nothing so great 

As finding a way you can serve ; 
By losing myself I've discovered romance 

In the heart of my labour and strife, 
For I'm driving a camion somewhere in France 

And I'm having the time of my life !" 



E74l 



ON THE U-BOAT TRAIL 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



HEROES 



THE heroes of the story books are ever in a pose, 
They always die with words of high and lofty 
verse or prose, 
But when the old Tuscania went down with flying flag 
Our khaki gang of heroes sang a gay and foolish rag! 



"Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go 

from here?" 
Across the sea the melody came dancing free and clear ; 
They faced their fate with souls elate and hearts that 

knew no fear, 
With "Where do we go from here, boys, where do we 

go from here?" 

"Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go 

from here?" 
A song, in truth, of valiant youth, that never loses 

cheer ; 
They felt the breath of clammy death, but with a lilt 

sincere 
Their laughing shout rang blithely out, "Where do we 

go from here?" 

It is a tale whose wondrous thrill we all of us can 
share 

[77] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



HEROES (continued) 

When brave men meet their destiny with spirit 

debonair. 
What foe can hope with boys to cope who sing, when 

death is near, 
"Where do we go from here, boys, where do we go 

from here?" 



[78] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE DESTROYER MEN 

THERE'S a roll and pitch and a heave and hitch 
To the nautical gait they take, 
For they're used to the cant of the decks aslant 

As the white-toothed combers break 
On the plates that thrum like a beaten drum 

To the thrill of the turbines' might, 
As the knife bow leaps through the yeasty deeps 
With the speed of a shell in flight ! 

Oh ! their scorn is quick for the crews who stick 

To a battleship's steady floor, 
For they love the lurch of their own frail perch 

At thirty-five knots or more. 
They don't get much of the drills and such 

That the battleship jackies do, 
But sail the seas in their dungarees, 

A grimy destroyer's crew. 

They needn't climb at their sleeping time 

To a hammock that sways and bumps, 
They leap— kerplunk ! — in a cosy bunk 

That quivers and bucks and jumps. 
They hear the sound of the seas that pound 

On the half-inch plates of steel 
And close their eyes to the lullabies 

Of the creaking frame and keel. 
[79] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE DESTROYER MEN (continued) 
They scour the deep for the subs that creep 

On their dirty assassin's work, 
And their keenest fun is to hunt the Hun 

Wherever his U-boats lurk. 
They live in hope that a periscope 

Will show in the deep sea swell, 
Then a true shot hits and it's "Good-bye, Fritz"- 

His future address is Hell 1 

They're a lusty crowd and they're vastly proud 

Of the slim, swift craft they drive ; 
Of the roaring flues and the humming screws 

Which make her a thing alive. 
They love the lunge of her surging plunge 

And the murk of her smoke screen, too, 
As they sail the seas in their dungarees, 

A grimy destroyer's crew! 



[So] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



NOT IN UNIFORM 

THEY haven't no khaki nor battleship blue, 
They're kind of a nondescript sort of a crew, 
Hard-handed and husky, but not like you meet 
On the holystoned decks of the battleship fleet; 
Nope, these here is only the everyday guys 
That handles the vessels what feeds the Allies, 
But — stop an' consider a bit what they mean — 
These lads of the merchant marine! 

They sails with a cargo of beef or of steel, 
Or T. N. T. maybe, or bacon an 5 meal, 
An' so they goes wallowin', loaded for fair, 
To feed an' munition the folks "over there." 
An' if they gets by— -well, they sighs with relief 
An' comes back to take on more biscuits an' beef. 
An' if they gets sunk—- well, it's plain to be seen 
That it's rough on the merchant marine. 

They don't get much glory for takin' a chance 
On dyin' while steam'in' to England or France, 
For if they gets rescued from drownin' one trip 
They just comes up smilin' an' finds a new ship. 
An' if they goes down in a watery grave 
There isn't no half-masted flags that'll wave ; 
An' yet they're real heroes who're doin' their bit, 
Not askin' no special approval for it ; 
An' that's just the reason we otta be keen 
For the boys of the merchant marine! 
[81] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



THE MINE SWEEPERS 

OH I these are doughty fishermen who tempt the 
roaring gale, 

But not for heaps of halibut or blubber of the whale ; 
They sally forth from anchorage, a bold and nervy 

crew, 
With drums of gleaming cable for the job they have 

to do; 
They take their open chances of the many deaths that 

lurk, 
They get no hero medals for the way they do their 

work, 
But cannily and craftily with heavy-weighted lines 
They sail the bounding billows as they drag the sea 

for mines! 



Their task is daily labour and the lure of it is small, 
They only comb the mine-fields as the greybacks rise 

and fall, 
And if their cables snare a mine their riflemen take aim 
And blow it all to pieces in a blaze of smoke and flame. 
And having done that little job, that ordinary chore, 
They throw the cables out again and drag the seas for 

more, 
For it's all a part of business, of the routine of the day, 
And you've got to do your duty if you want to earn 

your pay! 

[82] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 

THE MINE SWEEPERS (continued) 

They sometimes have a convoy, and they frequently 

have not, 
As they do their cautious fishing in a mine-infested 

spot; 
And they oftentimes are busy in the harbor of the foe 
While the shells are gaily skipping all about them, to 

and fro ; 
They haven't any uniforms or epaulets and such, 
Their pay is nothing princely and their glory isn't 

much; 
They're plain and sturdy fishermen, with salt upon 

their breath, 
Who clear the way for battleships and fish the seas 

for death! 



[83] 



IN CAMP AND TRENCH 



DESERTED ROADS 

TIME was we sang of wanderers who trod the open 
trail 

And roved about the merry world by foot or train or 

sail, 
Who knew the wind-swept spaces and who braved the 

sun and rain 
Or followed gipsy caravans by mountain peak or plain. 

But now the roads are empty of the blithe and restless 
clan 

And bats and owls are roosting in the idle gipsy-van, 
For every true adventurer who never could be still 
Has joined the greatest game of all and found a keener 
thrill 

They're somewhere in the trenches and they're some- 
where in the air, 

Oh look along the battle line and you will find them 
there ; 

But when the war is over and we welcome back our 
men, 

The rovers—what are left of them— will hit the trail 
again ! 



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